


Trade Mistakes

by Tails89



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Accidental Grogu | Baby Yoda Acquisition, But also ignores a lot of Chapter 16, Canon-Typical Violence, Din Djarin Whump, Gen, Good Parent Din Djarin, Grogu's first words, Happy Ending, Helmet comes off around the child, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, ManDadlorian, Picking and choosing bits of canon, Takes place well after Chapter 16
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28450545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tails89/pseuds/Tails89
Summary: Din has the kid to think about now, so he’s been taking smaller jobs, earning just enough money to keep them fed and the ship fueled for the jump to the next planet.It’s not sustainable, not in the long run— and the money from this one job would be enough to keep them fed for weeks, plus extra to finally carry out some much needed repairs on the ship—there is more than one component being held together with mesh tape.But if Din has learned anything in his years as a bounty hunter, it's that a reward this large always means trouble.
Comments: 26
Kudos: 135





	Trade Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> A bit o'whump to ring in the new year...
> 
> Warning: non-graphic vomit mention about 3/4 in.

Initially, Din had balked at the idea of taking on a job with such a high payout.

Typically, a reward this large meant trouble— either because the job itself was dangerous, or because there would be more bounty hunters after it. Bounty hunters who had no issue taking a life to get what they want.

Din has the kid to think about now, so he’s been taking smaller jobs, earning just enough money to keep them fed and the ship fuelled for the jump to the next planet.

It’s not sustainable, not in the long run, so he takes the job.

“Any idea what this is kid?”

He kneels beside the crate to pick up the object he’d been hired to retrieve. It looks innocuous enough—like some sort of mechanical egg, not much longer than Din’s hand. There are no seams or any indication of what might be inside, but that’s of no consequence. Din wasn’t hired to open it, all he needs to do it return it to the client.

“Me.” Grogu tugs on Din’s sleeve, his eyes wide with unrestrained want. “Me.”

“Sorry kid, you can’t have this one,” Din tells him. He stands and tucks the egg away safely in the bag hanging over his shoulder. “It belongs to someone else.”

“No,” Grogu whines, wrapping his arms around Din’s leg— it’s the kid’s new favourite word, one he uses often, especially when he isn’t getting his way.

“This isn’t up for debate,” Din scolds gently, crouching to pick the kid up.

“No. Boo.”

Boo is Din’s favourite word—it’s the closest the kid has got so far to _buir_. The word never fails to ignite something warm in Din’s chest, even when it’s being used in the build up to a tantrum—fortunately the kid doesn’t have many.

“I’ll buy you your own get when we get back-”

The air is still and humid, yet there’s a rustling in the trees off to Din’s left. Turning his head towards the sound, he activates his visor, looking for heat signatures.

There are three, huddled just out of sight in the undergrowth.

Moving casually, Din lifts the bag with the egg, pulling it out as if to admire the thing. As he does, he slips Grogu into one of the empty crates, murmuring to him to stay quiet.

He keeps walking towards the centre of the camp, putting some distance between himself and Grogu, then in the span of half a breath, he whips out his blaster. Aiming into the trees, he fires.

There’s a muffled curse as someone is hit and then two bounty hunters come bursting out of the foliage— one is masked, the other, a human dives out of the way as Din fires another shot.

The masked bounty hunter tackles Din around the knees and they both go down in a tangle of limbs. The grapple in the dirt before Din is able to break free, rolling away and springing to his feet.

He backs up a step, putting space between himself and his attacker.

Something hits him from behind—the other bounty hunter. The full weight of his body across Din’s back almost sends the Mandalorian sprawling, but he keeps his footing and throws his head back. There’s a sick crunch of cartilage as his beskar helmet collides with the hunter’s nose, but still he holds on, his arms going around Din’s neck.

Spotting a tree to his right, Din launches himself at it backwards, ramming the man on his back into the solid trunk. There’s a grunt, but the weight doesn’t shift.

The masked hunter rushes forwards, hands clenched into fists.

Din ducks left; movements hindered by the guy still clinging to his back and the punch slams into his gut. It lands just off-centre, missing the beskar and smacking into the unprotected flesh beneath the flightsuit.

The blow drives all the breath from Din’s lungs, and he doubles over gasping. He recovers quickly, throwing all his weigh backwards as he straightens, slamming into the guy behind him and forcing him to let go.

When the next punch comes, Din ducks right, crashing his armoured shoulder into his attacker’s chest. They go down again, rolling in the dead leaves that litter the forest floor. The bounty hunter gets the upper hand, rolling on top of Din.

And then he’s gone, flung by an invisible hand.

Sparing a glance towards the crate, Din climbs back to his feet as the second hunter shakes himself off. He strides forward, raising his blaster at Din. 

He doesn’t take the shot. One moment he’s standing there, the next he is lying, crumpled at the foot of a tree.

Neither attacker gets back up.

“Thanks kid,” Din says, turning to the small face peeking up from the crate. “You did good.”

Grogu blinks up at him, eyes already drooping from the effort used to take down the bounty hunters.

“Wait there,” Din tells him, walking over to their unconscious assailants. “What do you think they were after?” He moves slowly to kneel beside the masked body and searches through their belongings.

“No puck,” Din murmurs, checking their pockets. “No fob.” He moves to the other hunter. “Nothing.”

Bracing one hand against the hard-packed dirt, Din climbs stiffly to his feet.

“This wasn’t a coincidence,” he tells the kid, double checking his bag to make sure the egg is undamaged. It wouldn’t be the first time a client hired multiple hunters for a bounty. Whatever it is, it must be valuable. “Time to go, before more turn up.” The kid barely twitches as Din lifts him from the crate, exhausted from the use of his powers. 

It’s only a short walk back to the hidden speeder, but by the time Din reaches it all the adrenaline from the fight has worn off and he can feel every bump and bruise. His side throbs where the masked hunter had punched him and Din wonders briefly if he’s busted a rib. There’s not much he can do about it here, so he shoves that thought aside.

Tucking Grogu into a saddlebag, Din mounts the speeder and turns for the town.

***

If the client is surprised to see him, he doesn’t give anything away. Din passes over the egg and waits, hands tucked into his belt, for the client to nod and the surly-faced bodyguard to hand over the credits.

Walking back to the ship, kid hidden beneath his cloak, Din thinks of the credits swinging from his hip. It’s more than enough to keep him and the kid fed for weeks, plus extra to finally carry out some much needed repairs on the ship—there is more than one component being held together with mesh tape and Din doesn’t like the way it shudders coming out of hyperspace.

It’s a relief to reach the ship. They haven’t come across any further bounty hunters, but Din won’t be able to relax until they’re well away from the planet.

Stepping into the cargo hold a wave of dizziness hits him, and he stumbles, going down onto one knee. His hands instinctively go for Grogu, one reaching to steady the carry bag while he uses the other to steady himself against the floor.

Din doesn’t remember getting hit in the head, but with the way it aches he’s not going to rule out a possible concussion. As he stands his side screams at him and he grits his teeth, hitting the button on his gauntlet to raise the ramp and shut them off from the world outside.

Using the wall as support, Din slowly shuffles towards the bunk. His vision wavers for a second and he swallows against a sudden wave of nausea that churns in his gut.

He puts Grogu in his hammock to sleep off the effects of his powers, then heads for the cockpit. He doesn’t want to spend any more time on Jellat-5 and his injuries, while painful and inconvenient, are not life threatening and can wait.

Dropping down into the pilot’s seat, Din starts flipping the switches to commence the ship’s start-up sequence. The ship rumbles to life and as soon as they’ve got clearance, Din engages the thrusters to launch them up through the atmosphere.

***

Din wakes with a grunt.

He’s still sitting in the pilot seat staring out at the swirling vortex of hyperspace. There’s a vague memory of programming something into the nav computer, but everything after that is hazy.

Leaning forward to double check the coordinates, a sharp spike of agony tears through his side and Din slumps back, panting through the worst of the pain until it dulls enough to move again. He presses his hand to his side, fingers catching on the tear he can feel in his flightsuit, and when he pulls it away, his glove is painted with fresh blood.

His beskar chest plate prevents him from taking a closer look and needs to come off. Din fumbles with the clasps, his fingers clumsy and slow, but finally it drops into his lap and he pushes onto the floor.

Head falling forward, he catches a glance at the blood soaked fabric of his suit.

 _“Osi'yaim!”_ Din doesn’t remember seeing a blade, but the bounty hunter who had hit him must have had one concealed in his fist. In the heat of the moment, Din had only felt the punch and had not thought to assume it was anything else.

He uses the flight console to pull himself up onto his feet, ignoring the dark spots that creep into his vision. Now that he’s aware of it, he can feel how his shirt clings, wet and sticky from the congealing blood.

There’s a medikit in the cargo hold. It holds the bare essentials- a medisensor, cauteriser, a few bacta patches among other things—enough to patch himself up.

With one hand pressed against the wound to stem the bleeding, Din stumbles out into the hold and retrieves the medikit. There aren’t a lot of options for seating, so he picks a spot on the floor, slumping down against the wall with his legs splayed out in front of him. Then, holding the kit across his lap, Din pulls out the things he will need. Once it’s all laid out on the floor beside him, Din takes another look at his side.

His helmet is in the way. The thin field of the visor doesn’t give him enough access to properly see what he’s doing, and the chin guard bumps against his chest, so he pulls it off. The rest of his armour follows, piling up on the floor beside him. He manages to undo the fastening of his flightsuit and pull it down to his waist, but the shirt underneath is more of a challenge. Rather than try to remove it, Din grabs it near the ragged hole and just rips the thin material until he can see what he’s working with underneath.

The wound in his abdomen is about two inches long. Din can’t tell how deep it is but given it is leaking blood and nothing else he’s cautiously optimistic that nothing important has been nicked.

He tears open a sterile gauze pack and holds it in place for a few minutes to stem the flow of blood, using the time to prepare himself mentally for his next task.

Din is no stranger to injury. As a Mandalorian and a bounty hunter he’s seen his fair share of dangerous situations and, living on his own he’s well practiced in patching himself up. It never gets any easier though.

He pulls back the gauze and sprays the area down with an antibiotic. Then, picking up the cauteriser with shaking hands, Din places the tip of the device against the wound and activates it. The smell of burning flesh makes his stomach roll worse than the searing pain and it takes a few attempts to fully seal the wound. Once he’s finished he sticks a bacta patch over the top and slumps back against the wall.

He know he needs to get up. He needs to clean up; needs to eat something to counteract the blood loss; needs to get off the kriffing floor before the kid wakes up.

Din lets his head tip back against the cold metal hull.

He’ll get up in a minute. Just one minute.

***

Din wakes to the feeling of claws digging into his thigh.

Cracking open one eye, he drops his head forward just far enough to see the kid standing beside him, hands on Din’s leg.

“Boo.” Grogu looks up at him, hands rising to press against Din’s side.

“Hey,” he says, voice cracking as he picks the kid up. “Don’t do that. I’m okay.”

It’s not exactly the truth, but it’s not a lie. His side feels warm, the wound throbbing in time with his pulse, but as long as he stays still, the searing pain from before is absent.

He’s not sure how long he’s been on the floor—a while if the kid is awake. He usually sleeps for a few hours after using as much power as he had earlier. He must be starving.

“Hungry?” Din asks, stroking a thumb along one of the kid’s fuzzy green ears.

Grogu nods, tucking his face in under Din’s chin.

“I’ll get you something to eat.”

He takes a breath and holds it while he rolls onto his knees, then drawing one leg up, he stands. 

Standing hurts.

Black spots spin lazily across Din’s vision, but he stays upright, shuffling across the room to reach the galley. He finds something Grogu can eat right out of the packet and hands it over. He knows he should eat something himself, but with the way his stomach is still churning, Din’s not sure he could keep anything down. Still, he fills a cup with water, taking careful sips to ease the dryness in his mouth.

When the cup is empty, he staggers out to the cockpit to check how much longer until they reach Nevarro. His cloak and beskar chest plate are where he left them on the floor— there are streaks of blood across the beskar he hadn’t noticed earlier, the rest of his armour is probably in a similar state but Din leaves them for now and leans against the console to check the nav computer.

He’s only been on his feet for a few minutes and already he can feel his energy waning. The screen in front of him blurs and he blinks against the dizziness that threatens to overcome him. When his vision clears, he can see there are still at least three hours before he needs to land the ship.

He shouldn’t feel this bad.

This injury is minor compared to others he’s had in the past. He’d walked off a skull fracture after his first run in with Moff Gideon—granted the bacta spray IG-11 had was more potent than the patches in Din’s medikit, and he’d suffered headaches for weeks afterwards. A small laceration was nothing compared to that—unless it _had_ nicked something, the small voice in the back of his head supplies.

No, Din shakes off that thought, regretting the move instantly. He just needs more rest, to give his body time to heal, then he’ll be right.

Grogu’s finished eating by the time Din returns— he’s playing with the wrapper, scrunching the crinkly plastic in his hands. He looks up when Din re-enters the galley, raising his arms to be picked up and tucking his head against Din’s shoulder.

Carrying Grogu over to the bunk, Din tucks him back into the hammock—they could both use a few more hours of sleep. The kid watches over sleepily as Din sits on the end of the mattress to kick off his boots.

His clothes are a mess, but he doesn’t have the energy to deal with it. He tugs off his torn shirt—the ship is warm enough to go without—and climbs into the bunk. His stomach protests at the movement, but once Din’s lying down, the pain settles back into something manageable.

***

The ship lurches as it leaves hyperspace, jostling the occupants and shaking Din from his nightmare. He stares up at the ceiling, shivering on the thin mattress. He’d dreamed that Grogu was gone, that he’d been taken, and Din had been powerless to get him back.

He looks down towards the end of the bed, to reassure himself it was just a dream.

The hammock hangs empty.

“Grogu?” Din calls, voice breaking. “Kid?”

The only response he gets is the quiet hum of the ship.

Where’s his kid? Had they taken him again?

Something touches his face and Din jerks upright, biting down on the agony that rocks his body.

“Boo?” Grogu whines, his eyes wide with fright.

“I’m sorry,” Din whispers, voice no more than a croak. It isn’t unusual for the kid to climb out of bed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The kid reaches for the patch on his side, his ears flat back against his head.

“Don’t.”

Grogu looks up at him, hand falling.

“Good kid.” Din pats him on the back. “It’s fine. I’m okay.” His stomach rolls and he swallows, going hot then cold.

Scrambling for the refresher, he falls to his knees, hunching over the bowl. His side screams at the position as vomits up all the water he’d drunk earlier.

When the heaving stops, he rocks back to sit against the sonic shower and scrubs a hand down his sweaty face.

“Boo. No.” Grogu stands beside him, face set in a pout.

“I know.” Din pants against another wave of sickness. “But you can’t. You used up so much energy this morning. I can’t let you do it again.”

When he thinks he can stand, Din uses the shower to pull himself to his feet and ushers Grogu out of the room towards the cockpit.

It’s not until he’s sitting in the pilot seat, Grogu buckled into the seat across from him, that Din realises he’s helmetless, sitting there in his socks, flightsuit hanging down around his hips but by then they’ve started their descent onto the volcanic planet and Din can’t leave the controls.

 _“Hey Mando.”_ His comms burst to life. _“Didn’t expect to see you again so soon._ ”

It’s just a voice transmission, so Din can’t see Cara and, thankfully, she can’t see him.

“Hey.” The word pushes out of him with a grunt as they hit a patch of turbulence. “Can you meet me at-" he swallows against the rising bile in his throat, his vision wavering as they approach the flat outside the town . “Can you meet me at the ship?”

_“Is everything okay?”_

Din doesn’t answer, all his focus on flipping the correct order of switches to engage the landing sequence as the ground rushes towards them.

_“Mando?”_

-pull back on the control stick to slow the decent, flick- flick the landing gear, wait for- for the status-.

_“Din?”_

***

Everything is muffled when Din wakes—the pain and the nausea are still there but it’s muted, distant.

Opening his eyes, he realises he’s wearing his helmet. He doesn’t remember putting it on, but he’s grateful for it. The thought of so many strangers seeing his face fills him with dread.

He goes to move but all he manages to do is roll his head to the side. The room he’s in is small and dimly lit. There are no windows, not natural light, just soft glowpanels on bare rock walls. It is decidedly not his ship.

“Where’s Grogu?” His voice is rough, even with the modulation of his helmet.

“Karga has him.”

Tipping his head down towards his feet, Din spots Cara sitting near the end of the bed. She leans back in her chair, throwing her legs up onto the armrest of another chair.

“Do you remember what happened?”

Nodding, Din lets his head fall back against the pillow. The memories are scattered, hazy, but there are bits and pieces that stand out—the landing, urgent voices and a kid crying.

“Blade was poisoned,” he croaks, remembering the blurry figure of the medical droid standing over him.

“You’re lucky you didn’t die on the way here.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t see your face,” Cara says suddenly. “I saw you helmet. It was on the floor when I got on onto your ship, but after your transmission— and after that landing—” She smirks, letting her feet drop to the floor. “I only saw the back of your head. I figured you wouldn’t want—” she trails off with a shrug.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Cara says, slapping Din’s leg beneath the blanket and standing. “How about I go get that kid of yours? He’s been asking for you, asking for his—what’s he call you, boo?”

“Buir.”

“That’s Mando, yeah?”

“Mando’a.” Din moves to sit up slightly, wincing at the pull in his side.

“Huh.” Cara is silent for a moment. “Okay. Need me to get anything else for you?”

“Can you bring me a change of clothes, from my ship?” He asks. His chest is still bare, the blanket pulled up to his armpits and Din feels horribly exposed. “And the rest of my armour.”

“Sure thing, stud.” Cara winks and leaves the room.

Alone, Din takes the opportunity to remove his helmet. It smells stale and sour, and his hair underneath sticks to his forehead. He wants nothing more than a shower but that can wait until he gets back to the privacy of his ship. It’s bad enough he’s bare of his armour—bare of anything actually, he realises, raising the blankets.

There are old cold patches stuck to his skin—he remembers the waves of burning heat and icy chill as his body had tried to burn out the poison—but they’re useless now, so he peels them off.

There’s a clean bandage covering the laceration in his side. The skin underneath is still inflamed but it’s not the throbbing, hot ache it had been before.

There is a knock on the door and Din quickly shoves the helmet back onto his head.

“My monitoring program informed me that you had woken, Mandalorian,” the droid says moving into the room. “Are you in any pain?”

“No,” Din answers, watching the droid warily.

“My scanner indicates otherwise.” The droid stops beside the bed, the top half of its body turning towards Din.

“Why bother asking then?” He mutters under his breath.

“It’s in my protocols,” the droid says, eyes flashing as it scans the bed. “Your temperature is down to 100.9. Heart rate and blood pressure are back within normal ranges.”

“When can I leave?” Din asks.

“You are free to leave when you like. I do not anticipate any further complications; however further rest is advised.”

“Great.”

The droid gives him one final bacta injection, then leaves Din alone. Despite the unfamiliar surroundings, he dozes off and only wakes when Cara returns with Grogu, holding the kid in one arm and a pile of clothes in the other.

“ _Boo!_ ” Grogu squirms until Cara dumps him on the bed, rushing up Din’s blanket clad legs.

“Hey kid.”

Dropping the clothing at Din’s feet, Cara says, “I’ll give you two a minute,” and leaves the room.

Sitting up on the bed, Din picks the kid up with one arm while reaching to remove his helmet with the other.

“Hey buddy.”

Grogu clings to him, wrapping his little arms around Din’s neck and tucking his head under Din’s chin. “Boo.”

“Hey, I’m here ad'ika,” Din soothes, rubbing his hand up and down the kid’s back. “I’m sorry.” He reclines back against the pillows, still clutching the kid. “I’m sorry.”

They stay like that for a while, until eventually, Grogu calms and the shaking stops.

Din snags a shirt from the end of the bed and pulls it on over his head. He feels awkward without his armour, but once he’s dressed and his helmet is back on, he feels more normal than he has in... a while. He realises he has no idea how long ago Jellat-5 was, but it doesn’t matter now.

“Let’s go kid.” Walking on legs that feel like that of a newborn Eopie, Din carries Grogu to the door.

Cara is waiting for them just outside the door. The pushes away from the wall to fall into step with Din.

“You ready to blow this skug hole?”

***

“Don’t touch anything,” Din warns Grogu, as they walk through the marketplace just outside the spaceport. There are people everywhere— shouting, bartering—and Din doesn’t have a free hand to carry the kid. He doesn’t know how this always seems to happen. They’ve been on Nevarro less than a week and somehow the kid has managed to accumulate a whole stockpile of new clothes and toys.

It’s a relief to finally reach the ship and shut the door on the hustle and bustle of the world outside. Din has always preferred the solitude of space, where no one is going to harass him about getting knifed by a poisoned blade. He’d put up with Cara’s teasing for three days before deciding that it’s time for him and the kid to move on—she’s never going to let him live this one down.

After the trip to the infirmary, the repairs to the ship and factoring the cost of food and fuel, Din’s spent most of the money from the job on Jellat-5. There’s enough left over that he doesn’t feel a pressing need to find more work right away.

Dropping everything on the floor in the cargo hold, Din watches Grogu sort through his toys. It still amazes him that someone so small could hold so much power. Grogu has saved Din more times that he can count with sheer brute force. Perhaps it’s finally time to go find that Jedi.

“Come on,” he tells Grogu, turning towards the cockpit. When he doesn’t hear the kid following, he turns to glance over his shoulder.

Grogu has four toys clutched under one arm and is trying to scoop the rest up, but for each toy he picks up, he drops another two.

“Just pick one,” Din says. “They’ll still be here when you come back.”

The kid looks forlornly down at his toys, but does as he’s told, choosing a toy and stuffing it in his mouth before following Din into the cockpit.

Din buckles the kid in and takes his seat. He programs the coordinates—the ones sent to him in an encrypted message—into the nav computer. Time to go find Luke Skywalker.

**Author's Note:**

> Translation:  
>  osi'yaim - Strong exclamation of surprise or dismay
> 
> *
> 
> I 100% believe Din spoils his kid. I bet he just sees something and thinks, I bet Grogu would love this! and then he wonders how he’s accumulated so much shit.
> 
> *
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this fic! If you did, please leave a kudos or a comment. It's very much appreciated!
> 
> *
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](https://tails89.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/level_8_pigeon)


End file.
